


The Reporter's Tale

by InvaderTim88 (InvaderTim)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daily Prophet, Diagon Alley, Gen, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, Ministry of Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 10:10:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvaderTim/pseuds/InvaderTim88
Summary: After the attack on Godric's Hollow, everything changed.And not for the better.The Death Eater attacks continued and intensified. The Ministry responded as you would expect any government to respond to repeated terrorist attacks.And in such times, opportunities abound for reporters who are ready to seize them.





	1. Prologue

Headlines from The Daily Prophet, Morning Edition: June 7, 1979:

MYSTERIOUS MUGGLE MASSACRE IN MANCHESTER 

“DEATH EATER” GROUP HAS CLAIMED RESPONSIBILITY

HEAD AUROR F. ROBARDS: INVESTIGATION IS UNDER WAY

DAILY PROPHET EXCLUSIVE: DEATH EATER MANIFESTO REVEALED; WHO THEY ARE, WHAT THEY WANT

WHO IS ‘LORD VOLDEMORT’?

 

~

 

_July 19, 1980_

Severus Snape awoke to the sound of frantic but light knocking on the door.

He opened his eyes, immediately closed them again, and let out a groan of pain at the morning rays that had stabbed him during that brief exposure.

_Where in Merlin’s name am I_ , he thought to himself, _and exactly how much did I drink last night_?

He took a deep breath and attempted to take stock of himself. His head was pounding, and he had the sour taste of vomit lingering in his mouth. He pushed himself partly upright, before surrendering once again to his spinning head, and returning to his temporary home on the floor.

_Merlin’s beard,_ he thought, _I’m still drunk._

After a moment to gather his reserves, Snape opened his eyes again, very carefully, and looked up at the ceiling. Wood beams. An ancient porcelain toilet was just visible on his right, and a sink could just be made out on his left. He felt the floor around him. Stone tile, rather grimy. Outside, the sound of quiet conversation and the faint clinking of stoneware mugs.

The Hog’s Head. Specifically, the floor of the pub’s bathroom.

Suddenly, the knocking on the door started up again, and a woman’s tremulous voice spoke out. “Hello? Is someone in there? Please, I need to get in to the bathroom — I’m feeling rather unwell, decidedly odd…”

“A moment,” Snape gasped out, as he righted himself. He made his way to the sink, and splashed some water on his face. He looked up at himself in the mirror, red-rimmed eyes little more than holes in a gaunt face. He then dried himself on the hem of his stained robes, cast a quick Scourgify to clean up the mess he had left on the floor, and lurched over to the door.

He pulled the door open, where he was greeted by the largest pair of glasses he had ever seen.

He caught only the briefest glimpse of them, however, as the shawl-clad woman who wore said glasses quickly pushed by him, and slammed and latched the bathroom door.

Snape leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing deeply and trying to reconstruct the events of the previous night. He recalled a drinking contest with Mundungus Fletcher — the man was scum, barely counted as a wizard at all, but he had connections, and cultivating that contact could be useful to him and his associates.

He drew his wand again, quietly cast a few cleaning charms on himself, and was about to leave to report in, when he heard the sound of retching from the bathroom — as if the woman who had pushed by him were trying to cough up something larger than herself. Snape hesitated, and looked back. The retching was continuing, and actually gaining in volume.

Snape gingerly walked back over to the door, and put his eye to the keyhole — something of interest was happening here, that was clear, and it would undoubtedly be to his benefit to find out what it was. But how to gain entry, Snape wondered.

Nothing was visible through the keyhole. Snape drew his wand to cast an Enhanced Senses charm, when in an instant, the world around him disappeared.

A harsh voice spoke within the bathroom, and Snape found himself utterly and completely captivated by it — unable to see, think, move, feel, smell, or hear anything else. All his world had narrowed to that voice, and the words it spoke.

It said, “THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…”

These words slammed in to Snape like the fist of a God, imprinting themselves and their meaning indelibly upon his mind. He could barely think through the force of them, but he knew, dimly, that what he was hearing was a prophecy — and that the prophecy was meant for _him_ to hear. Meanwhile, the voice continued:

“AND THE DARK LORD WILL MARK HIM AS HIS EQUAL, BUT HE WILL HAVE POWER THE DARK LORD KNOWS NOT… AND EITHER SHALL MEET THEIR END AT THE HANDS OF THE OTHER, FOR NEITHER CAN LIVE WHILE THE OTHER SURVIVES…”

Slowly, slowly, like a man rising to the surface from underwater, Snape’s world and awareness returned to him.

Shaking slightly, his hands moved to his head to rub his eyes, and he found his feet bringing him over to the bar again. He motioned vaguely to the barman, who seemed to understand what he wanted without even a word, and he brought over a small glass of firewhiskey.

Snape downed the glass in one shot, and motioned for another.

_That voice_ , he thought to himself, as the barman poured him another glass. _I’ve never heard anything like that before. That was — it must have been — a prophecy_.

Snape downed his second glass, and felt his pounding head from earlier begin to lessen. He sat at the bar for a moment, clutching his glass and pondering, when a rich, pleasant voice spoke up behind him. “Starting rather early in the day, aren’t we, Severus?”

Snape turned around, and found himself looking into the smiling face and twinkling eyes of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

“Heh - Headmaster Dumbledore! What a surprise to see you here,” Snape stammered out, and plastered a surprised but friendly smile on his face, as a part of him shrieked internally and slammed up Occlumency barriers as quickly as he could.

Dumbledore chuckled, and said, “Though I am quite partial to Rosemerta’s mulled mead, when I find myself longing for a quieter atmosphere in which to drink, I come here. I’m rather fond of this place, you see,” he said, nodding and smiling slightly at the barman, who nodded back.

“Ah, I didn’t realize that, but will have to keep an eye out for you the next time I’m here,” said the outward Snape pleasantly, giving no sign of his internal panic, as the inward Snape looked desperately for a way out of the situation.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling, and continued, “It is always a pleasure to run into a former student. I trust you’ve been doing well since your graduation, last summer? And staying out of trouble, as well, I hope?”

Snape outwardly smiled, and said, “Thank you, Headmaster; you’re very kind. And yes, I’ve been doing, ah, quite well, and I certainly do my best to, ah, stay out of any dangerous situations,” as he inwardly screamed and ran around in circles, and ever so briefly considered cutting off his left arm at the shoulder and incinerating it, to more effectively hide the tattoo that burned there.

“As well as any of us can in these troubled times, eh, Severus?” said Dumbledore. “By the by,” he continued thoughtfully, “you didn’t happen to see a woman down here, did you?”

Snape looked around at the near-deserted barroom, in which no women were in evidence, and said, “Are you looking for any woman in particular, sir?”

“Yes, she was rather short, with a shawl and a large pair of glasses,” said Dumbledore, looking around himself and frowning. “I don’t see her, though — perhaps she stepped out?”

Snape started, and the outward Snape — the Snape who had nothing whatsoever to hide — smiled, and said, “Ah, Headmaster, I believe she just stepped into the bathroom a few moments ago. I’m sure she’ll be right out,” as he inwardly started swearing repeatedly and made ready to apparate upon the instant.

“Ah, thank you, Severus," Dumbledore beamed, and made his way over to the bathroom. “I _am_ sorry to leave you so suddenly, but I have several other interviews scheduled for the day — but I’m sure I shall see you again, quite soon,” said Dumbledore, smiling as he went.

“Thank you, Headmaster, and a very good day to you as well,” said Snape with enforced calm, placing a few Sickles on the bar. As he walked out the door, he glanced over his shoulder — the prophetess had left the bathroom, and she and Dumbledore were talking quietly.

Snape kept his breathing calm and his stride regular as he walked out the door, and around the corner. He glanced around to ensure the streets were empty, then plastered his hand against the wall for support, and leaned there for a moment, breathing heavily. The world spun around him.

_What did I just hear?_ Snape wondered to himself. _And what will the Dark Lord make of it when I tell him?_

With an inward sigh, Snape girded himself, and made ready to apparate back to his master.

 

~

 

Transcript from The Daily Prophet, Special Print Edition: November 1, 1981, 8:30 AM:

DARK MARK SIGHTED OVER GODRIC’S HOLLOW

NOBLE HOUSE EXTINCT; “DEATH EATER” TERRORISTS TO BLAME

DMLE Head Crouch: “We will find you.”

 

By Andy Smudgley, Martin Amerinus, and Kikis Trecus

 

_LIVE:_ _This space will update with additional reporting via Protean Charm!_

Residents of the sleepy village of Godric’s Hollow awoke today to a scene of utter horror. The terrorist group calling themselves the “Death Eaters” has struck again — this time at the heart of one of the oldest wizarding communities in Britain.

Their distinctive green skull-and-snake logo was first sighted by Bathilda Bagshot, a longtime resident and notable historian, shortly after she awoke at 5:15 AM. She immediately notified the Ministry, and Department of Magical Law Enforcement Hit Wizards and Auror triads were quickly summoned, and the town was placed under lockdown.

Subsequent investigation by Ministry authorities revealed that the “Death Eater” attack had been highly localized, as has been typical of the group in the past. The initial Ministry investigation has discovered five people killed, and one wounded. The attack appears to have occurred at the home of Frank and Alice Longbottom, located at 10 Lion Street; both were found dead inside, clear victims of the Killing Curse, along with their infant son, Neville. Also found were the bodies of Julius and Augusta Longbottom, Frank’s parents, who according to witnesses were visiting for the weekend.

Additionally, Charlus Potter, of the neighboring Potter family, was struck by an unknown Dark curse during the night. This was not discovered until Aurors arrived at the house at 5:37 AM to ensure the safety of the inhabitants. Thankfully, the curse was not immediately fatal, and he survived long enough to be stabilized on the scene by a trained DMLE medi-wizard, and was promptly Flooed to St. Mungo’s along with his wife, Dorotea.

As of press time, no other casualties or injuries have been reported, but the village remains under lockdown until Ministry officials can verify that the threat has dissipated.

As the more socially aware of our readers will already know, the demise of the Longbottom family in the night represents the ending of that Noble House — the Sacred Twenty-Eight have now been reduced to Twenty-Seven. Additionally, the attack upon the Longbottom family represents an alarming change for the “Death Eaters” and their leader, the wizard who styles himself “Lord Voldemort”. Previously, their attacks have been largely directed against Muggle communities, and have occurred, at most, once or twice a year. This, however, represents the second attack on a wizarding community by the group within the last six months, and the fifth so far this year.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement Head Bartemius Crouch was also on the scene, and took the opportunity to say, “Whoever has done this — Death Eaters, or whatever you call yourselves — I say this to you now: You will not get away with this. We will find you.”

According to Ministry press officials, a statement by Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold will be forthcoming later today. Please watch this space for further updates.

(Add’l reporting contributed by Rita Skeeter)


	2. Aftermath

_It is a little known fact that the Department of Mysteries actually predates the rest of the Ministry of Magic._

_Among those scholars of the strange and esoteric who are aware of that uncommon piece of trivia, many of them imagine that the Department of Mysteries (and its attendant Unspeakables) was inherited by the Ministry when it was formed — that it was perhaps descended from the Invisible College, that fabled collection of natural philosophers and mystics established in the late 16 th century, during the reign of Elizabeth I._

_The true history of the organization is still more obscure._

_When Merlin asserted his rule over Britain’s wizardkind (or so the legend tells), he took his mastery as an opportunity to confiscate the more dangerous books of magic and powerful artifacts from among the populace._

_It’s well established among scholars of the period that Merlin confiscated the original writings of Herpo the Foul, of Empedocles the Wise, of Apollonius of Tyana, and many others._

_He is also well known to have taken unto his tower in Lyonesse a certain arch and veil reputed to allow for communication with the dead, as well as a mirror which reportedly showed rather more than just one’s reflection, and a most unusual magical device which recorded the contents of prophesies made within the bounds of England, Scotland, and Wales._

_Naturally, there was a great deal of consternation among the people of the British Isles at this presumption. It was undeniable that Merlin was the most powerful wizard of the age — perhaps the most powerful wizard who had yet lived, or would ever live — yet did this give him any right to take what was theirs, they asked themselves?_

_Certainly not, came the reply; and so, certain powerful mages of the period — John Uskglass, Thomas Godbless, and Martin Pale notably among them — banded together, in utmost secrecy, to protect their knowledge._

_They called themselves the Guardians of Mysteries, and vowed to secure, contain, and protect dangerous magical knowledge and devices from those who would abuse them — including Merlin himself, if necessary._

_Of course, as is well established, Merlin eventually died, vanished, or departed (naturally, the historical evidence is unclear, and all wizards known to be present at the event had their memories quite thoroughly modified, as no two among them recalled anything remotely similar to another)._

_Upon Merlin’s departure, the Guardians of Mysteries moved into his tower (which is, of course, the current location of the Ministry of Magic, now buried under London), and began to safeguard the treasures that had been lost to them for the last few centuries._

_They continued to operate in great secrecy for many years afterwards, however, as they were never quite certain if, or perhaps when, Merlin would return. While he has not yet done so, it is well attested that the Department of Mysteries has several contingencies in place should such an unlikely event come to pass._

-Excerpt from “On the Origins of the Department of Mysteries,” from Chapter 3, Volume II of “A History of Magic,” by Bathilda Bagshot.

~

Rita Skeeter was, she had to admit, rather intimidated.

She would certainly never admit such a thing out loud, but in the privacy of her own head...yes, she was intimidated. Downright unsettled, in fact.

That may have been a natural reaction to where she was, she supposed. It was even possible that there was some enchantment upon the room designed to cause exactly that feeling — she wouldn’t have put it past anyone to try and pull a dirty trick like that; given the opportunity, she knew she would have done the same. But it might have simply been her acute awareness of where she was — the Most Ancient Hall of the Wizengamot is not a place that most people go lightly.

Her usual beat as Court Reporter for the Daily Prophet was not, generally, very interesting. She’d spent endless hours in the Ministry listening to stuffed shirts eternally debating the tiniest minutia imaginable.

On one particularly memorable occasion, she recalled, that one redheaded fool had droned on about something…hm, she actually couldn’t recall anymore. Something about tweaking sub-departmental standards comparing the relative strength of enchanted Muggle artifacts, to measure the relative thaumaturgic and economic value of imports, wasn’t it? Or was it cauldron bottom thickness?

Regardless, the nitwit had gone on for a solid three hours, and had refused to yield his time, despite numerous pleas from the chair. (And that’s what they were, mind — pleas. Pleading on the floor of the Wizengamot, and not from the accused. She’d scarcely have believed it, had she not felt precisely the same way herself.)

Yes, that was what she had come to expect, in this place. Most of her time reporting on the Wizengamot had gone similarly. For her beat usually took her to one of the auxiliary courtrooms, which handled the more routine administrative tasks that kept the Ministry trundling along. But today she was in the Most Ancient Hall, where the Wizengamot was founded a thousand years ago or more, by Merlin himself…and despite herself, she felt it.

The grey-and-white-stone walls loomed over her. The concentric rings of the Wizengamot seats surrounded her. Yes, she felt it, indeed.

She felt small.

She shook her head slightly, recovering with a quick shudder. It wasn’t all that bad, to tell the truth. The reporter’s box was rather nice. And the seats were comfortable enough, she supposed, sinking in to her cushioned armchair. (This said less about the Wizengamot’s respect for reporters — nearly nonexistent — than it did the standards to which all British wizards were accustomed.)

And today — ahh, Rita had dreamed of this moment. Today, that investment of time and energy would repay itself, multiple times over. Today, her time as an undistinguished junior reporter was over. Today, her star would rise.

For today, the full Wizengamot itself would debate matters of great import, and only one reporter was permitted in the room. Rita had managed to snag that spot for herself — and for the Daily Prophet.

It was one week since Godric’s Hollow. One week since the world had changed, and the Wizengamot was scheduled to decide the official Ministry response to the “Death Eater” attack.

With relish, Rita readied her Rapid-Rite Quill, tilted her notebook slightly so the quill could easily pick up the voices of the speakers, and watched with rapt attention as the Wizengamot started its session.

 

~

 

**WIZENGAMOT OF MAGICAL BRITAIN**

_Here follows:_

The proceedings and debates of the 77th Session of the 538th Wizengamot,

Recorded this day of Monday, November 9, 1981,

To be stored in the Ministry Hall of Records in perpetuity

PARTIAL TRANSCRIPTION — APPROVED FOR PUBLIC RELEASE

 

_The Wizengamot met at 8:30 AM, and was called to order by Chief Warlock Albus PWB Dumbledore._

CW DUMBLEDORE: The 77th Session of the 538th Wizengamot is hereby called to order. The Chief Warlock recognizes Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold.

MFM BAGNOLD: Thank you, Chief Warlock. My Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, I offer a statement expressing what, I have no doubt, we all feel regarding the terrorist attacks launched against Magical Britain on the night of October 31st, 1981, and I ask for its immediate consideration by this body.

CW DUMBLEDORE: Thank you, Madam Minister. Is there any objection by any member of this body?

_No response._

CW DUMBLEDORE: The Clerk of the Wizengamot will read the resolution. 

_The Clerk read as follows:_

 

Wiz. Res. 93

 

Whereas on October 31, 1980, terrorists did attack the wizarding community of Godric’s Hollow;

Whereas these terrorists did, in flagrant violation of Ministry dictates and the laws and customs of this nation, use several curses commonly known as Unforgivable;

Whereas these terrorists did murder, as the apparent goal of this attack, five witches and wizards of the Longbottom line, among them an infant;

Whereas these terrorists did also afflict two neighboring families in the attack, causing possible permanent spell damage to one Charlus Potter, and considerable property damage to the home of the Abbott family;

Whereas these terrorists have, by their brutal attack, extinguished the Longbottom House, of the Noble Houses of magical Britain;

Whereas these terrorists have clearly begun a campaign of fear and intimidation against the people of magical Britain;

Whereas these terrorists have clearly done so with the intent of either influencing the policy of this Ministry, or of causing its capitulation and downfall; be it hereby

Resolved by this august body, that the Wizengamot:

  1. condemns the terrorists who planned and carried out the attack of October 31, 1980 in the strongest possible terms, as well as their sponsors;
  2. extends its deepest condolences to the victims of these heinous and cowardly attacks, as well as to their families, friends, and loved ones;
  3. is certain that the people of magical Britain will stand united, as our nation begins the process of recovering and rebuilding in the aftermath of these egregious attacks;
  4. commends the heroic actions of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Aurors, Hit-Wizards, Medi-Wizards, and such other DMLE staff as may have been present, in their response to these tragic events, which showed such courage, determination, and skill;
  5. declares that these premeditated attacks struck not only at the people of magical Britain, but also at the symbols and structures of our nation, and that magical Britain is entitled to respond;
  6. supports the determination of the Chief Warlock and Minister for Magic, in close consultation with the Wizengamot, to bring to justice and punish the perpetrators of these attacks, as well as their sponsors, if any;
  7. shall make such decrees as shall allow the Ministry to safeguard the people of magical Britain from any further attack by any means necessary;
  8. shall make the aforementioned decrees, ensuring an initial response, no later than December 1, 1981;
  9. determines that a state of war hereby exists between these terrorists known as “Death Eaters” and the Ministry and people of magical Britain; and
  10. declares that November 9, 1981, shall be a National Day of Unity and Mourning, and that when the Wizengamot adjourns today, it stands adjourned out of respect to the victims of this attack.



 

CW DUMBLEDORE: Thank you. Is there a motion to approve the resolution for general release?

_General acclamation of “Ayes” and “Seconded” from the chamber._

CW DUMBLEDORE: Such a motion exists, and is evidently seconded. All in favor?

_General acclamation of “Ayes” from the chamber._

CW DUMBLEDORE: All opposed?

_No “Nays” recorded._

CW DUMBLEDORE: The motion passes. The Clerk of the Wizengamot will please send the resolution to the Ministry Press Office after the closing of this session. The Chief Warlock again recognizes Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold.

MFM BAGNOLD: Thank you again, Chief Warlock. At this time, I move that the remainder of this session be sealed, that we may freely discuss a legislative response to this tragedy.

CW DUMBLEDORE: Very well, Madam Minister. Is there a second?

_Several members of the Wizengamot call out “Seconded.”_

CW DUMBLEDORE: There is a second. All in favor?

_General acclamation of “Ayes” from the chamber._

CW DUMBLEDORE: All opposed?

_No “Nays” recorded._

CW DUMBLEDORE: The motion passes. This session of the Wizengamot is hereby sealed. The Aurors will please escort all members of the public from the Hall.

 

END OF PUBLIC TRANSCRIPTION

 

 

_Francis — Got an advance copy!_  
_We’ve got hours at best — run this_   
_over to Prophet HQ immediately!_

_R.S._


	3. Crossing the Threshold

_Despite their relative rarity, Dementors have a truly fearsome reputation in modern magical Britain._

_Unlike the poor souls in the Reunified Kingdoms of Florin and Guilder, where dementation is the third-most-commonly-reported magical ailment (after spattergroit and dragon pox), citizens of magical Britain are generally spared that particular affliction, as Dementors are largely confined to the island of Azkaban, in the North Sea._

_Yet their fearsome reputation persists despite the infrequent exposure, and Dementors are commonly considered to be among the most terrible creatures that walk this earth. And rightly so, for their powers are manifold, and terrible in their potency: Dementors engender sadness, fear, and despair in those unfortunate enough to be near them, and spells and enchantments decay in their presence; they hasten decomposition of organic matter, and their presence will, in time, corrode both stone and metal; they are entirely unhindered or unaffected by most defensive or offensive spells; over prolonged exposure, they will permanently drain the very life and magic from a wizard, and their “kiss” causes a permanent state of living death._

_As their modern role in magical Britain only goes back a scant three centuries, to the founding of Azkaban Prison, Dementors are most commonly thought of as a relic of the Dark Ages (as they are best known for their wartime use by the Dark Warlock Brona, in the Wars of the Founders, from 1140-1166 CE) and, of course, their historic association with Dark wizards underscores that school of thought._

_Yet Dementors most assuredly did not first appear in the Dark Ages, but rather seem to have been in a parasitic relationship with humanity for at least as long as recorded history, if not longer: a papyrus scroll, recently translated by Aegyptothaumatologists, suggests the existence of Dementors as far back as 1450 BCE. The relevant section has been reproduced below:_

_“Be of good cheer! For Amun, your good father, has given to you the rebel of Joppa and all his people, as well as his city. Send men to take them away as captives, that you may fill the house of your father Amun-Ra, King of the Gods, with male and female slaves, who have fallen beneath your feet forever. Send also more mages, my king, for your servants and mages, Amenhotep and Menkheperraseneb, fell nobly in battle, kissed and destroyed by the ancient [untranslatable] horrors.”_

_Though brief, the description contained within the “Djehuty Manuscript” is unmistakable for anything but Dementors._

-Excerpt from “On Dementors,” from Chapter 5, Volume XVII of “A History of Magic,” by Bathilda Bagshot (with consultation by Newton Scamander, noted magizoologist)

 

~

 

Elphias Doge was quite certain that Albus Dumbledore was a genius.

Oh, he might not act the part, to be sure. His whimsical and scholarly air, his twinkling eyes and cheery smile, and his odd fashion sense all would seem to suggest otherwise. Yet, one only had to look at his list of accomplishments, and it became quite clear, at least to Elphias.

New breakthroughs in Transfiguration by the age of 17, the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon blood, advancements to the field of alchemy with Nicolas Flamel, successfully taming a phoenix, and the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald; Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin – First Class, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and he was even on a Chocolate Frog card.

Yet despite all his accomplishments, and all his abilities, and all his hard-earned wisdom, Albus Dumbledore had not managed to turn the Wizengamot aside from its current path of utter lunacy. As his fellow Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot slowly filed out around him, the day’s session done, Elphias remained in his seat in the Most Ancient Hall and found it hard to believe just how foolish the Wizengamot had been today.

After the public had been escorted out, Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold had announced a proposed Resolution of the Wizengamot: The Taking Hysterical Action to Undermine the Murderous Attacking Terrorists, and Urgently Requisitioning Guards for England Resolution (or the THAUMATURGE Resolution, for short). Dumbledore and the others of their faction — Bones, Marchbanks, and Crouch most especially — had been more sharply divided than he’d ever seen them over the contents of the proposed resolution.

The old wizard with the phoenix on his shoulder had argued. He had pleaded. He had cajoled and exhorted. Yet, with the exception of himself and Dumbledore, nearly everyone in the Wizengamot had been in favor of the act — the vote had been 47-3, in favor.

Forty-seven to three. The biggest landslide vote Elphias had ever seen in the Wizengamot before that had been 40-10, and that had been to award a posthumous Order of Merlin to Norvel Twonk.

Oh, some portions of the resolution were reasonable enough, he supposed. Increasing the funding of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, certainly. Increasing funding for St. Mungo’s, and for research into anti-Dark Magic protections, most assuredly. Resolving to improve the security at the Ministry of Magic and other high-priority locations, absolutely.

But mass surveillance of the Floo network? Members of the public required to submit to Prior Incantato inspection of their wands by any DMLE member, without even a warrant? Dementors stationed at regular intervals in public streets? Secret Wizengamot sessions to try any suspected Death Eaters? Even legalization of the use of Unforgivable Curses on suspected Death Eaters?

Elphias Doge sighed, and stood up from his seat in the Hall. He truly didn’t know what to think, but that the Wizengamot had lost their minds. The THAUMATURGE Resolution would spell the end of magical Britain as they knew it.

The rest of them just couldn’t see that yet.

 

~

 

Peter Scrubb had never been to London before. His mother had, of course, and the nice-seeming but intimidatingly large man the school had sent to collect him seemed quite familiar with the city so far. But as the hairy man led him and his mother through the streets, he kept on muttering to himself as they traveled, and Peter was feeling rather nervous. Excited, yes, but nervous.

“Can’ believe they forgot yeh,” the man grumbled, loudly enough to rattle the train’s windows, as they got on the Tube.

“Excuse me, sir? Would you mind if I asked a question?” chirped Peter’s mother, as the doors closed behind them.

“Yeh can just call me Hagrid, Missus Pole. And o’ course not; yeh can ask me anything,” rumbled the large man.

“Now, my Peter — this is a school of magic he’s been invited to?” asked Mum.

Hagrid chuckled, and said, “Yeah, an’ Hogwarts is the best there is, yeh know. Though, if yeh don’ know nothin’ about magic, yeh wouldn’ know that, would yeh?”

“But how did he get admitted? We haven’t filled out any applications or anything,” Mum said.

“Ah, we’ve had his name down since he was born; we could tell he was magical right away,” said Hagrid. He hesitated a moment, and continued, “I do owe yeh an apology though — yeh were supposed ter get yer invitation letter months ago! Professor McGonagall — she’s head of admissions, yeh see — has been out o’ her mind with worry ever since we found out. Nothin’ like it’s happened in hundreds o’ years. Anyway, term’s already started, yeh see, and they sent me along to find yeh and see if yeh were interested.”

“It’s started already? I’ve missed it?” asked Peter.

“Not teh worry — yer a smart enough lad, clear as day ter see that, and yeh’ll catch up right quick. And if yeh don’t, Professor McGonagall told me ter tell you she’d appoint yeh a special tutor,” said Hagrid. “At no extra cost,” Hagrid continued hurriedly, seeing Mum’s concerned expression. “It’s our fault yeh got missed over, and we’re aimin’ ter fix it.”

The screaming of the train’s brakes cut off any further conversation for a moment. When the train had stopped, Hagrid said, “Right, follow me, both o’ yeh. We’ve got some shoppin’ ter do, if we’re teh get yeh ready fer Hogwarts.”

Peter and his mother followed closely behind Hagrid, who was so large that he parted the crowd easily. They passed banks and booksellers, grocers and restaurants, but no shops that looked like they sold — Peter checked the list — anything remotely like magic wands, pewter cauldrons, dragonhide gloves, or books of magic.

Could this really be true? Could he actually be a wizard? Some of what Hagrid had said earlier — about making strange things happen when he had been sad, angry or scared — had felt righter than Peter ever thought he could explain. It sounded like a joke, and yet even though it seemed like it should be unbelievable, Peter couldn’t help but trust Hagrid.

Suddenly, their journey through London was brought to an abrupt halt, when Hagrid stopped in front of him. “Well, this is it,” said Hagrid, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

Peter looked at it skeptically. It was a small, hole-in-the-wall of a pub. Peter probably wouldn’t have even noticed it if Hagrid hadn’t drawn his attention to it. And speaking of which — Peter’s mum was looking back and forth, bewildered. “What is it? Where? I don’t see any shop by that name!”

“Mum, it’s right over there,” said Peter, pointing. Mum looked at the optician’s to the left of the Leaky Cauldron. “No, mum, to the right.” Mum turned at a 45-degree angle, and peered intently at the antique bookstore to the right of the pub.

“No, Mum, it’s right here,” Peter said, and strode towards the door of the pub. As he did so, his Mum started, and looked around in a panic. She rounded upon Hagrid, and said, “Where did he go? What have you done with him?”

Hagrid was unbothered by this and merely chuckled, as he said, “He’s right here. Hold on fer jest a mo’; I’ll have teh get yeh in. I always forget Muggles can’t see it.” He looked back over his shoulder at Peter, and said, “Hang on, Peter, we’ll be right there.”

Peter watched with fascination as Hagrid drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat and brandished it. Hagrid muttered something quietly, and tapped Mum on the head with the umbrella. At first, nothing happened. Then, it was like a veil was taken away from behind Mum’s eyes. Her eyes widened, and she backed up several steps and took in the small pub that had, apparently, just appeared in front of her. “Oh my,” she breathed, taking it in. Then, she caught sight of Peter, let out a small, relieved sigh, and hurried over to him. She took his hand, smiling down at him, and turned to Hagrid, who was stowing his pink umbrella inside his coat and grinning broadly. Peter’s mum smiled back, and said, “Well, Mister Hagrid, if I hadn’t been convinced before… Let’s just say you’ve certainly proved your bonafides. Shall we go in?”

The inside of the pub seemed to Peter’s eyes to be rather dark and shabby. A few old men were sitting in a corner together, nursing glasses of a liquid the color of flame; one of them was smoking a battered old pipe. A lanky, red-haired man was sitting at the bar and talking to the old bartender, who was balding and looked tough and wiry, like a piece of jerky that had been dried in the sun for too long. They were greeted by waves and smiles — everyone seemed to know Hagrid well — and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his hand on Peter’s shoulder, and pushing him practically down to his knees.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “This late in the year, really?”

Hagrid sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “Lots o’ trouble, Tom. Shoulda received his letter ages ago; we’re scramblin’ ter make sure he can catch up, and doesn’t have ter miss the year and start next fall. Let’s not get inter it. Peter, this is Tom. Tom, this is Peter, and this is his mum, Missus Jillian Pole.”

Tom shook their hands solemnly, and said, “Very pleased to meet you both. My name is Tom, and welcome to the Leaky Cauldron; you’ll always be welcome to stop in for a drink or some food if you’re in London. We also have rooms available up above, if you need a place to stay. And yes, Missus Pole, that pass is permanent; you’ll always be able to come back.”

“Thank you, Tom,” said Peter’s mum. “We’re all rather new to this-“

“Not to worry,” replied Tom, “We get lots of Muggleborns and their families coming through. You’ll fit in just fine. Though I’m surprised to see only the two of you; usually everybody comes along. Didn’t the boy’s father or any siblings want to —”

Hagrid cleared his throat pointedly, forestalling any further conversation, and said, “Well, must get on — lots ter buy. Come on, yeh two.” Hagrid waved farewell at the barman, and led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, empty but for a dumpster and a few weeds.

Hagrid walked with purpose towards the brick wall on the far side of the courtyard, drew his pink umbrella, and muttered to himself, “Right now…three up…two across.” Hagrid tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella, and said, “Right, stand back, both of yeh.”

The brick Hagrid had tapped sank back and hollowed into a hole, which dilated and expanded and wriggled into a huge archway, revealing a sunlit street, eager shoppers, and a row of shops advertising cauldrons and dragon livers.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.” The three of them walked forwards, together, into the wizarding world.

Peter was practically shaking with excitement as he walked down the street, and he kept seeing new things that demanded his attention, one discovery after another.

He passed bookshops that definitely looked considerably more magical than the ones he’d passed in Muggle London. He passed apothecaries and pet stores, bars and restaurants and broomstick sellers, sweetshops and clothing stores. At every corner, peddlers and merchants were set up at impromptu stalls, selling everything from small figurines of goats that moved on their own, to musical instruments that played themselves, to “Rings of Contrariness and Agreeableness,” whatever those are. Peter was starting to wish he could split into about twenty different copies of himself; there was so much to see.

But before he knew it, they’d arrived in front of a white marble building that towered over the others on the street, with burnished bronze doors, and the words _Gringotts Bank_ carved above.

“Right,” said Hagrid, stopping and turning towards Peter’s mum, “this is Gringotts Bank. It’s not like the banks yeh see in the Muggle world, so I’ll have ter take a mo’ and explain summat to yer abou’ how it works. So, Missus Pole, Muggle banks don’t normally charge yeh a fee, and they pay interest, don’t they? Well, at Gringotts…”

Peter lost interest in the discussion his mum and Hagrid were having. He wandered over a few steps to look in the window of a nearby shop, but for some reason, found it difficult to see through it, though it had been well lit only a moment before. Peter found himself shivering slightly — the warm fall air had suddenly turned chilly. And it was getting darker, not as if the sun was being covered by a cloud, but as if the sun was being eaten up, bite by bite, leaving Peter in an ever-narrowing circle of dimly lit street.

Peter shuddered as the cold intensified around him, and he felt his breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin; it was behind his eyes, it was within his chest. He could feel his heart freeze over. He could hear an endless roaring sound, growing louder and louder —

Peter’s body fell soundlessly in the middle of the street.

Peter could distantly hear the sound of someone weeping through the roaring. It sounded like a man was dragging himself across the ground, weeping and gasping with pain. It sounded like — no, that was impossible. But it didn’t matter if it was impossible; it was plainly real. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t breathe — but the smell of twisted metal, and burning rubber and gasoline filling his nose was unmistakable. He tried to move, to crawl closer to his fa— to the man, but he couldn’t. Thick white fog was growing around him, inside him —

Suddenly, the air above Peter was pierced with a bright light, and he heard the sound of a man’s voice roaring something. He was lying on the ground, the sun was shining again, his mother was sobbing hysterically over him, and his body was shaking and trembling, as if he’d been dunked in a frozen lake.

Peter reached up to his mother, took a deep breath, and said in a shaky voice, “Mum, I’m okay. I’m okay.” Still sobbing, his mother pulled him up and squeezed him tightly in her arms. Peter could see, over her shoulder, a dark shadow being corralled by figures of light into a cage, the cage being sealed and being hauled away by men in robes and leather armor.

Peter took a deep breath, and as one of the men in robes and armor came over, his trembling began to subside. Peter relaxed into his mother, closed his eyes, and focused simply on breathing. As he did so, he was distantly aware that the armored man was introducing himself as Auror Captain Vimes, and apologizing profusely on the behalf of some Ministry to his mother.

But that didn’t matter to Peter. His mother was still here, and he was still here, and they were together. That was what mattered.

 

~

 

Rita Skeeter was sitting in a side room in the offices of the Daily Prophet, and taking a much-needed moment to breathe.

She was finding it hard to breathe, though — not from any physical ailment, but from sheer excitement.

Rita Skeeter had been in the Daily Prophet offices hundreds of times — obviously she had, she worked there, after all — and she had settled into a comfortable routine.

The higher-ups, the senior editors and editor-in-chief paid her no attention. She covered her junior Ministry beat, and did it well — she turned in her articles on time, and was economical with her phrasing; she had only seldom had to revise them downwards to fit the needs of the page layout.

She had a few…well, “friends” might not be the right word for them. But people she knew and was reasonably friendly with.

Amanda — Mandy for short — who sat next to her, and was dating that utter pillock Patrick.

Taylor, who sat on the other corner of their triad of desks and who always seemed to be sitting there, unmoving and staring into space, and yet unaccountably always had his personal column and half a dozen other pieces printed throughout the week.

Their team’s assistant, Francis — earnest, and unfortunately, next to useless.

Her editor, Charles — steady, dependable, and, she had to admit, a solid advocate for her in the years she’d been here.

She had, despite her best intentions, settled into a routine at the Prophet. And that routine was now utterly disrupted.

She had walked into the Prophet’s offices today, and it was the Second Coming of Merlin.

Mandy and Charles had both been smiling, and waiting with a hug and handshake, respectively. Francis had been grinning from ear to ear. Even Taylor had managed to pull himself together enough to nod and smile at her, briefly.

Reporters with twenty years more experience had congratulated her.

Senior editors who she wouldn’t have even dared to speak to previously had walked up to her to give her a quick, “Good job!” or a condescending “Attagirl!”

Even Reginald Cuffe, the Editor-In-Chief himself, had come up to her to shake her hand.

Yes, Rita Skeeter was on fire; there was no other word for it.

Her years of work, her years of wheedling, begging, and pleading for ever-greater access at the Ministry had finally paid off. Her last article had hit Diagon Alley as hard as if she’d struck it with a blasting curse; people were still scrambling over the wreckage of what their lives had been before.

The THAUMATURGE Resolution would change the face of magical Britain as they knew it.

The rest of them were just starting to figure that out.


	4. Border Control

_The Selwyn family has been living and farming in the village of Appleby in North Lincolnshire for many hundreds of years, and they have generally been quite content to ignore and be ignored by the wider wizarding world._

_Yet despite their relative isolation, the Selwyn family has managed to amass a considerable fortune, primarily through the cultivation of reannual plants — most particularly, reannual grapes, which are, like all reannuals, harvested the year before they are planted. This unusual temporal quality is reflected in the very fine wines produced by the Selwyn family, which are famous (or, perhaps, infamous) for giving the drinker a hangover several hours before any wine has been imbibed. (Fortunately, such hangovers are easily remedied by drinking any reannual vintage, and so the wines have also developed a secondary reputation as an excellent remedy for headaches.)_

_The vineyards of the Selwyn family can be found growing prominently in the wizarding areas of the Lincolnshire Wolds, which are, of course, renowned for their fertility. According to the historical records, the Selwyns were granted land in the area by the Crown in the late 11 th century, shortly after the Norman conquest of England._

_In more recent history, the Selwyn family, aided perhaps by the careful introspection and planning required for the cultivation of reannuals, has joined the wider wizarding community to great acclaim, and have developed a reputation for gentility, refinement, and exceptional magical skill…_

 

-Excerpt from “On the Magical Nobility of Lincolnshire,” from Chapter 17, Volume IV of “A History of Magic,” by Bathilda Bagshot

 

~

 

It was her day off, and a Sunday to boot, but the noise outside her Horizont Alley flat was unusually deafening, and Rita Skeeter knew she probably wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep.

On a Saturday, that wouldn’t have been terribly surprising — most people did their shopping on Saturdays, and the din from the marketplace could easily reach her street-facing windows — but on a Sunday, that was very unusual. The sound of the marketplace chatter easily penetrated the thin walls of her building.

It wasn’t quite as loud as if her bed had been in the middle of the marketplace, Rita considered, looking up at the ceiling, but it really wasn’t much of an improvement.

Rita seethed for a moment, and then rolled over and pulled her pillow over her head.

It didn’t help.

Her head still under her pillow, her arm shot out, and groped around her nightstand until she found her wand. A vague gesture, and a muffled _quietus_ later, and the noise was lessened somewhat.

Rita sighed, rolled over, and tried to get back to sleep.

It didn’t help. 

Not enough, anyway. There was still too much noise.

Rita groaned, threw the pillow off of her head, and muttered, “What time is it?”

“Bingley-bingley-beep! Good morning, Rita!” came the overly chipper reply from her alarm clock. “It is 11:14 AM on Sunday, November 15th! The forecast for the day is-“

The alarm clock’s patter was abruptly cut off, and replaced with a tiny “Aiiieee!” as a small sphere of hardened air conjured from Rita’s wand pushed the clock off her bedside table, and down to the floor.

Rita lay back in bed for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t want to get up, but… what, in Merlin’s name, was going on outside, anyway?

Rita sighed, and pushed herself upright. She staggered away from her bed, giving her wand a brief flick as she passed her bedside table. She yawned as she entered her studio flat’s tiny bathroom, and behind her, the alarm clock was lifted and placed gently back on top of her bedside table (accompanied by a tiny voice, saying, “Humph. Every morning, it’s the same thing, but do I ever complain?”).

A few minutes later, Rita was dressed and striding quickly down the stairs of her building. Out the door and a quick left. A wave to Mr. Demir, who owned the Tobacconist’s occupying the first floor of her building. Quickly past, and–

Rita checked her pace, and backed up a few steps. “Good morning, Mr. Demir,” Rita said, smiling warmly at the older, bearded man. “Good morning, Rita! To what do I owe the pleasure? You’re not taking up smoking, are you?”

Rita chuckled, which was, perhaps, more than the joke deserved, and said, “Not today, thank you. I just wanted to ask you — that noise over in the market. How long has it been going on?”

The tobacconist frowned in thought for a moment, and replied, “Three, perhaps four hours? It’s been quite noisy, and there’s been more foot traffic than usual. Why?”

“The usual,” Rita replied, waving her notebook at the man. Demir smiled at her a bit sadly, and said, “Ah, always working, you are. You should take some time — enjoy life! Working too hard — it’ll be the death of you, if you’re not careful.”

Rita laughed again, thanked him, and left, striding quickly towards the source of the noise.

She rounded the corner, turning onto Diagon Alley, and picked up her pace — the noise was getting louder. She quickly rounded the next corner, and walked right into a man. Rita backed up a step as he staggered, and regarded the man for a brief moment as he straightened himself — he was tall, with thick, coal-black hair brushed straight back, and a narrow, severe face. The man was dressed in once-fine black robes, and, oddly, had a haversack over his shoulder.

The man, meanwhile, had righted himself, and was glaring at her. Rita muttered a brief apology and swerved past him. Whoever this man was, he clearly was a newcomer to London — the haversack made that much crystal clear — and, as such, was unimportant.

Rita pushed through the thickening throng, and drew closer to the source of the noise. There was a crowd gathering ahead in the marketplace, and she could already hear the chanting: “Hey, you! Get off our Floo! Hey, you! Get off our Floo!” Rita swallowed, and pushed ahead — she needed to find out what was going on; this was definitely going to be the Prophet’s evening edition headline.

Rita rounded the final corner and emerged in the center of the marketplace, and was suddenly faced with Aurors in full battle gear, two ranks thick. They were surrounding a massive group of wizards — it looked like there were several dozen, all told — who were standing in place and yelling. Actually, no — there were overlapping chants going, though, which made it difficult to tell for sure — but there seemed to be two different groups of protestors, and still more Aurors were determinedly keeping them separated. _That has to be nearly the entire DMLE turned out_ , Rita thought to herself.

Rita backed up, and headed up the steps of Gringotts to get a better look. She found a reasonably open space, readied her notebook and a quill and began to scribble notes to herself.

First, a description of the overall scene. Then, the chants she heard: “Hey hey, ho ho, Dementors have got to go,” and “Never forget Godric’s Hollow — it could be you tomorrow,” among others. She saw wizards holding signs, “We Support Our Ministry,” and “No Justice, No Peace,” and “Death Eaters Not Welcome,” and “This is what Democracy looks like,” and dozens of others, all of which she wrote down. She also quickly jotted a few possible headlines — “Mass Protests in Diagon Alley!” “Chaos in the Streets!” — and snapped her notebook closed.

She’d seen enough, at least to start. There were doubtless other Prophet reporters here — she could use them to fill in the gaps later. She’d inevitably have to share the byline for this one, but if she got back first, she’d be able to set the tone of the piece and write the intro.

Rita set off for the Prophet’s offices at a brisk walk. It was her day off, and a Sunday to boot, but it didn’t matter. She had work to do.

 

~

 

_Earlier that day…_

It was a bright and shining morning, the day Adrian Selwyn returned to magical Britain.

He arrived at the Ministry Portkey Grounds in Dover with the 8:15 AM Portkey from Tirana, Albania, and not one person who arrived with him knew who he was.

He cut a figure utterly unlike his fellow travelers. He was tall, with thick, coal-black hair brushed straight back, and a narrow, severe face. He was dressed in what had been very fine black robes many years ago, which were now faded and aged, though unstained. Like many of the other travelers, he had a haversack over his shoulder, and it was this which made him stand out — most wizards with robes as fine as his would have arranged for a private portkey, and had a man to carry their bags.

He eyed his fellow travelers with a cool gaze as they staggered around the arrival grounds with portkey-induced nausea — which, of course, he was not affected by — and he reshouldered his haversack, and strode with purpose into the Ministry’s Arrivals Processing Center, which appeared to Muggles to be a small fisherman’s shack.

As Adrian entered the cavernous room, he looked at the lines of travelers stretching out before him: “Tourists,” “Merchants and Traders,” “Ministerial and Diplomatic Travelers,” and — ah, there it was — “Returning British Citizens.” He made his way to the right and joined the queue, and glanced at the murals on the walls and ceilings; scenes of magical British history stretched out before him.

From its earliest days when Merlin reigned, to the founding of Hogwarts, to the establishment of the modern Ministry and the International Statue of Secrecy, to, most recently added, Grindelwald’s defeat at the hands of Albus Dumbledore and the ensuing decades of peace; everything was accounted for, as the mural magically grew on its own, reflecting major events.

On the farthest edge, Adrian thought he saw a faint aura of darkness growing in the mural. He frowned, and moved forward with the queue, lost in thought.

After a time, Adrian arrived at the front of the line, and a bored-sounding “Next,” propelled him forward. He arrived at the desk of a yawning Auror, an older man who took in his travel-worn and slightly stained robes with disapproval. The Auror muttered, “Papers, please. Name?” and sipped a steaming thermos of some foul-smelling liquid. “Adrian Selwyn,” he replied, handing over his passport. The Auror took it, tapped it with his wand, and it unfolded itself in the air in front of him, until it was approximately the size of a small tent.

“Let’s see…” the Auror said, rapidly scanning through its contents. “Adrian Selwyn, born in 1927 to the House of Selwyn, child of Cynric Selwyn and Delwyn Lewis, half-Blood, graduated from Hogwarts in 1945 with excellent marks. Several different visas here — my goodness, it looks like you’ve been all over — and you’re returning home now?”

“Precisely,” said Adrian, with a cool smile on his face. “I’ve been away for long enough, and felt it was time to return home.”

“Very well; I’m quite certain your family will be happy to have you back in the country. Do you have anything to declare?” inquired the Auror.

“Only that I’ve had rather a long day already, and would quite like to get a hot meal and a shower,” said Adrian, still smiling.

“Ha, quite,” chuckled the Auror, readying his stamp. “Where will you be staying, in case we need to reach you? With your family?”

“Not yet, I think — I’ve been away for many years, and am not entirely certain that they’ll be happy to see me, at least not unannounced. I think I’ll stay at the Leaky Cauldron for the next few days.”

“Very well — thank you, Mister Selwyn, and welcome back to magical Britain,” said the Auror, stamping his passport, and returning the rapidly collapsing document.

Adrian took back his passport, nodded formally at the Auror, and departed through the doors at the far end of the hall; once more a legal resident of magical Britain. He walked outside, readied his wand —  _Destination, Determination, Deliberation!_ — and with an audible crack, vanished.


	5. Omake Files #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter I have planned requires a considerable amount of research for me to write, so I'm still working on it. Until then, enjoy this:

OMAKE FILES #1: OTHER FANFICTIONS YOU COULD'VE BEEN READING

* * *

THE MYSTERIOUS CASE OF THE NOISE IN THE DAYTIME

 

Severus Snape awoke and opened his eyes, only to close them again against the harsh glare of sunlight.

He took a few deep breaths, and attempted to take stock of himself. His head was pounding, and he had a bad taste in his mouth. He pushed himself partly upright, before surrendering once again to his spinning head, and returning to his temporary home on the floor.

Suddenly, he became aware of a noise.  _Drip…drip…drip…_

The noise was —  _drip…drip…drip… —_ repeating incessantly —  _drip…drip…drip_ — and quite —  _drip…drip…drip… —_ ugh, irritating.

_What_ , thought Snape to himself,  _is that mysterious dripping noise?_

* * *

 AURORS! AURORS!

 

Auror Fred Colon (Diagon Alley Precinct) looked at his fellow Auror, bemused.

Auror Nobbs only roughly approached proper Auror discipline at the best of times, but today, in addition to his standard robes (tattered), leather armor (stained), and wand (oddly greasy, and chipped on the end), he had some kind of Muggle contraption strapped on his back.

Fred sighed, and strode over. "'Ere, Nobby, why're you carrying that?" he asked.

"Carrying what, Fred?" Nobby replied.

"That…machine…thing. What is it, anyway?"

"Machine thing? Fred, I'll have you know this is a genuine Gluck double-action triple-cantilever One Man BallistaTM, with a full-spread option, an underhaft bayonet and a hair-trigger!"

The technical description ricocheted off of Fred's skull so obviously that it was nearly audible, and he looked at the gleaming contraption of wood and metal and replied, "Okay. So, what is it, anyway?"

Nobby sighed. "It's a crossbow, Fred."

"Ah, one o' them Gobbo weapons?" replied Fred. "Why are you carrying that, when you've got a perfectly good wand?"

"'Cause these are dangerous times, Fred, and it's an amazing weapon; the best Goblinwork," said Nobby.

"But how will that help you if," Fred looked around cautiously, "if You-Know-Who or the Death Eaters attack?"

"Well, I might be able to take them with it by surprise, Fred."

"How? It's a bit more obvious than a wand, Nobby," replied Fred. "You're not bad with quick spellwork, but it looks like you'd need two hands-" Fred stopped, eyeing the relative size of the device to Nobby, and continued, "and maybe a brace of some kind to use a crossbow that size; they'd have a Shield charm up, and that's you done, then."

Nobby beamed, and said, "But it can fire straight through Shield charms, Fred!"

"Like hell it can," Fred shot back. "They're just sticks, Nobby, even if they are a bit pointy. I could block any of them easily."

"Sure you can, Fred. So could I. And you're better at Shield charms than I am; you could probably even block five of them, if you had some warning."

Fred was gratified at the praise, and was about to speak up, when Nobby continued, "But could you block fifty of them at once?"

"Fifty? There's only one quarrel in there, Nobby. Unless you've got a time turner about your person, I don't see how you could manage that."

"Like this, Fred," said Nobby, as he pulled a lever on the side of the crossbow, took aim at the nearest practice dummy, and pulled the trigger.

_(Later that evening…)_

The explosion of wood that erupted from the crossbow at the Diagon Alley Auror Precinct did not quite make the front page of that evening's Prophet, but only because it was crowded out by a rain of snakes in Thorlby and former Minister for Magic Ignatius Tuft spontaneously turning into a duck during a ribbon cutting ceremony, necessitating his immediate Flooing to St. Mungos.

* * *

 MY REPORTER

 

Hi my name is Ivory Light'ness Neurosis Dove Way but for some reason ppl call me Rita and I have short blonde curly hair which perfectly offsets my icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a crocodile handbag and glasses which perfectly frame my face and a lot of people tell me I look like Cate Blanchett (AN: if u don't know who she is get da hell out of here!).

 

* * *

 HARRY POTTER III: REVENGE OF THE DARK LORD

 

As Ron and Hermione packed up their things and the rest of their Defense Against the Dark Arts class streamed out of the room, Harry approached their new professor's desk with some trepidation. He seemed like a reasonable man, but given some of the past Defense Professors Harry's year had experienced — Umbridge came to mind — a little caution was perhaps advisable.

"Erm, Professor," ventured Harry. "Can I ask a question?"

The Defense Professor turned to him. "Yes, Mr. Potter?" he asked mildly. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"Er, maybe, Professor. It's not really Defense related, more Divination, but Professor Trelawney can be a bit difficult to talk to sometimes..."

"I quite understand, Mr. Potter," the man said. "Now, what is your question?"

"Well, Professor, I've been having some bad dreams lately. Or, well, more than that. Dreams about people dying. The same dreams, night after night. Is that — could that be Divination? Should I be worried? If any of my friends are at risk, I would want to know, and save them."

The Defense Professor looked intrigued. "Prophetic dreams, you think, Mr. Potter? Such things are rare — quite rare — but not unheard of. Have you told anyone else?"

"Just Ron and Hermione. They both think I'm just stressed or overworked. We do have our NEWTs this year, but..." Harry paused. "I'm sorry, Professor. I shouldn't have bothered you with this."

"Nonsense, Mr. Potter. Every area of knowledge has value, and any intelligent wizard will always seek to know more." The Professor paused. "If you are seeking to save your friends, even from Death itself... Tell me, Mr. Potter. Have you made a study of the Dark Arts at all? I am not accusing you of attempting to cast Dark curses — many wizards know the principles."

"The Dark Arts? No, Professor! I'd never thought that they-"

"Might be useful?" interrupted the Defense Professor with a smirk.

"No, but, Professor — the Dark Arts; they're evil!"

"Evil, Mr. Potter? It is undoubtedly true that many evil wizards have used them, but they are merely a tool, like any other. Indeed, the Dark Arts are a pathway to abilities that some lesser wizards might consider... unnatural."

"Unnatural?" asked Harry. "What do you mean, sir?"

Professor Riddle looked at Harry intently; his eyes seemed to gleam red in the torchlight. "Tell me, Mr. Potter: Did you ever hear the tragedy of Lord Herpo the Foul?" 

* * *

 Collected excerpts from:

THE LION, THE WITCHES, THE WIZARDS, AND THE VANISHING CABINET

 

"Er, did you know this was here, mate?" Ron asked Harry, looking at the trees around them nervously.

"Of course he didn't, Ron," replied Hermione. "Disappearing and reappearing in a snow-covered forest is not one of the standard uses of a vanishing cabinet." 

 ~

"Might I be right in thinking," the faun said uncertainly, "that you are a Son of Adam or a Daughter of Eve?"

"Er, what, mate?" Ron replied uncertainty. "A Son of Adam or a Daughter of Eve, my child — is that what you are?" 

"No, I heard you, I just don't understa-"

"Are you a human, boy?" sighed Mr. Tumnus.

"Oh, yes, we all are," Ron said.

"We  _all_  are? There's more than one of you here?"

"Yeah, there's four of us: Harry, me, Hermione and Ginny. Well, five if you count Draco; he snuck in after us." Ron said, through a full mouth. He finished chewing, swallowed, and said, "This Turkish delight is pretty good, by the way."

"Thank you, my dear child," came a woman's voice from behind him.

 ~

Hermione was furious. "No, absolutely not. Talking animals, a powerful witch ruling over a land that appears to have no other magic, even a semipermanent winter — that's all fine. I can believe that. But I absolutely refuse to believe that Father Christmas is real!" 

~

“Blimey,” said Ron, as the five of them stared up at the castle.

It was a magnificent structure; delicate towers, graceful arches, silhouetted by a sky bluer than they’d ever before seen with nary a cloud in sight, and framed below by the sea and the sand. It was a castle out of legend. It was a place from out of a time when kings ruled with gentleness, kindliness, and the consent of their subjects, for their people knew that they were as valued as the royal family itself.

“My father’s mansion is better,” said Draco.

 ~

The Lion stood before them, majestic and terrible, radiating a sense of power and shining like the sun. The five children were struck with awe at the sight. 

"Is that- could that be?" Draco stammered out. 

"Aslan!" cried Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny as one. Draco, meanwhile, cried out, "Rumbleroar!"


	6. Quick Author's Note

Hey everybody!

I just wanted to put up a quick note here so it's established that, despite the absurdly long delay, this work is not abandoned — just badly delayed. After I posted the last chapter, I realized I had to do considerable restructuring and rewriting, and I knew that would take a while. I decided to post those Omakes so you had at least SOMETHING while I did that rewriting, and I was about 1/4th through that process when things in my Real Life got insanely busy.

 

More of Rita's story is coming...eventually.

 

Look for either a new chapter or at least a status update in this space on March 31, 2019.

 

-InvaderTim


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